Storm Warning

The goldfish floated near the glass, its orange body catching the last light before the storm hit. Sarah watched its mouth open and close, that silent, perpetual begging for something it would never receive.

"You going to say anything, or just watch the fish?" Mark stood in the doorway, his silhouette already darkening.

She didn't turn. "What's there to say?"

"We promised we'd try. Counseling, like they suggested."

"Counseling." She laughed bitterly. "Like talking about it changes that you're never here. You're always at the office, always on your phone, always somewhere else." She gestured toward the living room where their daughter's science project sat on the mantle—a perfect little pyramid she'd built for school before everything fell apart. Before she stopped speaking, before the diagnosis, before the slow-motion collapse of their family.

The dog, Buster, scratched at the back door. He wanted out, but Sarah knew he hated thunder. They all did now.

"I'm building something," Mark said, his voice tight. "For us. So we can—"

"So we can what? Afford more silence?" Sarah finally faced him. "Remember when we used to go to baseball games? Before the promotions, before the house we're never in together? You used to hold my hand during the seventh-inning stretch. Now you can't even look me in the eye across the dinner table."

Lightning split the sky outside, a violent crack that made the walls shudder. The goldfish darted to the bottom of its bowl. Buster whined.

"I'm doing this for you. For all of us."

"You're doing it for you," she said softly. "Whatever you tell yourself. But Mark?" She paused. "Some things, once broken, don't get fixed. They just get different."

The storm broke then, rain hammering the roof like accusations. In the sudden gray gloom, with their marriage dissolving around them like sugar in hot water, she realized she wasn't sad anymore. She was just tired. And sometimes, that was worse.